


endure

by MathildaHilda



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathildaHilda/pseuds/MathildaHilda
Summary: So, let’s face it; survival doesn’t cut it.
Relationships: Dina/Ellie (The Last of Us), Ellie & Joel (The Last of Us), Ellie/Riley (The Last of Us)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 48





	endure

**Author's Note:**

> Not 100% happy about the title, but it'll do for now

i.

You cut him open, ear to ear.

It’s not a smile. It turns more and more into a grimace, the more you feel the blade make its way across his throat.

You cut him open, ear to ear because he stole something irreplaceable from you.

Stole something beautiful. Something iridescent. Something very dear.

You cut him open, and with it, you cut up your own heart.

ii.

Dina smiles, lips pink and swollen. Her eyes are like… _something_.

You forget the word.

You decide that her eyes are beautiful. Because they are. Her hair is beautiful. Her laugh. Her nose. Her smile.

Her eyes are more than beautiful. You just don’t have enough words for it.

Love should be simple. _Simple_ and _fun_ and _warm_.

This love? It’s _everything_. But it’s not simple.

This love is dangerous. Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s everything. It’s fucking beautiful.

That’s what she is. Dangerous and beautiful.

( _love is easy to spell and easy to feel,_

_it’s just so fucking hard to let it go_ ,)

You kiss her again.

iii.

Joel holds out his hand to you.

‘it ain’t deep,’ he says as if that makes everything better.

‘it looks deep,’ you reply, and he smiles a little.

It seems easy for him now. To smile.

Eas _ier_.

You take a breath, then another. The second breath goes with the first step, and you yelp in surprise as the sandy bottom of the stream falls away under your sudden weight.

‘you’ve been in a stream before,’ Joel deadpans, and you splash his shirt with your second step in, harsher than you’d intended. He chuckles.

It’s a kind sound, but you still make a face. The sand falls around your feet as you wade over to him, the water almost waist-high.

‘alright,’ you plant your feet against the soft current. Joel holds out his hands. Your hands are almost as calloused as his when you grip them, warmth slowly taking the place of the chill of the water.

‘kick your feet up. backward. just trust me.’ You hesitate.

‘do you trust me?’ he asks you, just as softly as the current.

You nod. It’s a small gesture, done once and then twice, and then you take a breath.

You’re not flying. Just floating, clothes soaking through, and you almost feel like a leaf. Like petals. Feathers.

‘kick your legs, just like we practiced,’ he tells you, watching the top of your head as you turn your face to the water, concentrating. An insect swims along the bottom, undisturbed by your steps.

You do as he says, and now, _yeah_ , it _definitely_ feels the way flying probably does.

You laugh and cough when the water enters your mouth.

‘now what?’ you ask, suspended in the water, your hands in his, eyes sparkling.

‘now? you let go,’

iv.

The sound tears a scream from your throat and rips your heart from your chest.

Steals it away like it means nothing at all. Steals it away like it means _everything_.

You grasp the hand that reaches for you – scarred and calloused and bloody – and have no words to give.

You hold that hand until the end has come and gone.

Love is beautiful, even after it’s gone.

You love them, _oh how you love them_ , and it’s enough to break an already broken heart.

There’s a gun on the floor, empty. A broken blade. A shattered bottle.

Blood – everywhere.

No one can have forever, and you don’t want it.

You just wish it wasn’t so damn hard to reach.

v.

You scratch your nose, and Dina laughs.

‘clown,’

‘raccoon,’ you bite back, and she laughs again, the attempt of makeup circling her eyes.

You want to kiss her, but Jesse’s too close, throwing a soccer ball between himself and Kevin, chest-deep in water.

So, you just laugh. Dina smears sunscreen on your nose.

The touch burns for more reasons than the very obvious sunburn.

vi.

You scrub your hands against each other the first time someone dies by your hand. He’d tried to kill Joel. So, you had killed him.

It shouldn’t have made you feel like this. There’s no blood on your hands. No _real_ blood, anyway.

You’ve trained for this, but maybe you never took _actual people_ into account.

Maybe, it was always those other mean fuckers that keep walking around.

You can do it. You don’t have a choice. And, well, you _do_ want to help.

You know what to do and how to do it.

But – and you know he thinks this too – you’re a kid.

You’re no match for them. They’ll just kill you and call it a day. Won’t they?

Just a girl. Not a threat.

But that’s not true, is it?

Fuck that. Fuck everything. Be terrifying. After all, they deserve it.

So, forget the guilt. None of those motherfuckers are going to think about it. Hell, half of them won’t even feel it.

Forget the guilt.

It’ll haunt you forever anyways.

vii.

Surviving doesn’t make you any safer than you already are.

It just makes for a target. Food. Target practice. Looting.

( _you’ve stolen enough shoes as of late to know that the latter is true_ ,)

Your face is smeared with the blood trailing down your arm and into your hand, and it doesn’t go away no matter how much you scrub. It’s long since dried. Soap and water will get it out.

Hopefully.

Your tears have created tracks in the coat on your face. Riley has barely cried at all.

Two days, and then you turn.

But, you don’t feel any different. The pain has dulled, the headache is gone, and all the Runners are too.

There’s no one left to fight. ( _yet_ ,)

It’s been a day and then some. Not quite two.

‘we should go,’ you whisper. Riley doesn’t answer verbally and just shrugs her shoulders.

‘what does it matter?’ she asks later, when you walk through the mall, bags on backs and water guns left deep in the store. You look at her.

She shrugs again; ‘they’ll just kill us.’

‘Marlene won’t,’

Riley stops. She looks tired. Hell, she looks past the point of being tired. Even more tired than the time you stayed awake for three days just because.

‘she will,’

‘no, she won’t,’ you shake your head.

‘she _will_ ,’

‘no, she _won’t!_ she _can’t_!’

Riley crosses her arms. Her skin is clammy, and her bite looks worse.

‘and, why _can’t she_ , Ellie?’ She scratches her hand. Blood drips down her fingers.

‘because,’ you pause because you almost lose the words. ‘because she’s a friend,’

Riley looks at you and almost sighs. You can see the way her shoulders hitch up but then doesn’t lower back down. How they stay suspended like that, and how she almost looks afraid to let go.

‘i don’t really know how it was before, but _here_ – right _now_ ,’ she points to the floor between you. ‘right _now_ , friends kill friends. because they have to,’

‘because that’s better than having to kill a Zone full of people,’

You stare at the spot she’s pointed to. There’s a hole in your shoe.

‘so, then why haven’t you killed me?’ you ask.

You see the moment her heart plummets through the floor.

So, let’s face it; survival doesn’t cut it.


End file.
